


Bertie

by kate_the_reader



Series: Bob [2]
Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Bob regains his composure, Class Issues, Dominance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His heart is banging. He’s never felt such a heady rush, not even blow feels like this. He thumbs Bertie’s bottom lip, feels the way he is shaking. “That’ll do,” he says. “Yeah, that’ll do fine.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bertie

**Author's Note:**

> This follows on from _One-two punch._

"Do as you're told!" 

God, that felt fucking good. The way the posh bloke's eyes widened when he said that sent a jolt up Bob's spine. Fucking show One Two. 

He has been jumpy, seething, simmering all day. Since last night, when One Two dropped him off at his place and he just went and lay on his bed, surrounded by the smell of One Two, and the smell of the club, and floated on his panic about the court case. 

And then this morning, in that suit, which he hadn't worn since his Nan's funeral, standing in the dock and hardly hearing what the beak said and what the lawyers said. Hardly daring to hear it. 

And now here, all these posh people, and One Two so angry. But just, fuck him. Bob is free, and he is going to enjoy this. 

And yeah, Mumbles sending him to screw with this posh lawyer felt a bit … a bit like he was being used. But fuck it, Mumbles knows. He knows a thing or two about Bob that One Two was too scared to see. 

So this is something he can do, that no one else can do. Fuck with that posh lawyer, get him to give up the secrets he has and they want. And if Bob gets something out of it as well? Well, so much the better. And if One Two sees? Yeah, so much the better. 

The posh bloke isn't half obvious though. Twisting round in his seat, practically tearing Bob's clothes off with his eyes. 

The way Bob makes himself talk to him isn't really something he would do, normally. All seductive and campy. Can't do that, down the Speeler. 

"I hear you have a secret." Looming over him, posh bloke looking up, all wide-eyed and a bit nervous. Bob may be smaller than One Two, smaller than Mumbles, but he's got this guy just where he wants him. 

"By the looks of you, you have more than one." 

Posh bloke “doesn't want to talk about work”? Fuck him! Acting like Bob couldn't possibly know about depositions and stuff. Who does he think he is? 

"Give me your mobile!" Bob drops his voice. Posh bloke can hardly believe it. 

"What?" 

"You heard me! Do as you're told!" 

Yeah. That made him sit up. 

Bob can feel the heat of him, and the nervous tremor, as he slides down, practically into his lap. Drops the mobile, gets up without another glance. But he can feel posh bloke's eyes on him the rest of the evening. One Two's as well, speculative. 

******

They're out, driving around, a bit aimless, when his mobile rings with an unsaved number. He takes a chance, purrs into it. "Ooh, is that you Bertie?" Bob can almost feel One Two stiffening in the back seat. Yeah, he hasn't heard Bob quite like this before. Bob hasn't heard himself like this before, to be honest. So he turns it up even more, growling into the phone, which earns a surprised squeak from posh Bertie. Yeah, that drink might be fun. 

And Mumbles must have said something to One Two, because he’s calmed down a whole lot since that night. That night Bob doesn't really like to think about too much. 

Bob has thought about what to wear to meet Bertie. He saw the way the man’s eyes fell to his open buttons at the party, and he’s put on a white shirt, neatly done up. Easy to unbutton if Bertie deserves it. The pub Bertie has told him to meet him at is nicer than his usual boozer, but it's just a pub, and Bob feels pretty at ease, leaning against the bar, waiting for the lawyer. But he’s starting to wonder if he’s been stood up, if Bertie has played him for a fool, when he arrives, carrying a briefcase. 

“Where’ve you been?” says Bob, low. 

Bertie’s eyes widen. “Sorry!” he says. “Court ran late.” 

“Really,” says Bob, flat. 

“Sorry,” says Bertie, again. “What are you drinking?” 

Bob has been drinking a beer, but he’s fucked if he’s going to let Bertie off that cheap. What was that vodka Mumbles ordered that one time? “Grey Goose.” 

Bertie raises an eyebrow. “Okaaay,” he says and orders for both of them. 

“So,” Bertie says as they settle at a table in a corner, “I hope that … paperwork was useful.” 

“Very,” says Bob, “Oh, yes.” 

“Happy to help,” says Bertie. His eyes travel down from Bob’s, stopping with a tiny frown at his done-up buttons. Bob just smiles at him, bland. Gets up to go to the loo, comes back with a couple of buttons undone. And that makes him sit up. It's very easy to impress this geezer. 

But it’s not like they’ve got anything to say to each other. Bob lets his eyes drift around the room. Bertie’s not the only suit-wearing, briefcase-carrying posh boy here. But Bob is the only one of his kind. He stares a challenge at one old bloke who is sneering behind his pint glass. Fuck him, anyway. 

“Well,” says Bertie, “this has been … fun. Shall we do it again?” 

He’s not sure what the point would be, but he does like the way Bertie looks at him. Hungry and impressed. It’s not really something he’s used to. Most of the blokes he’s had have been furtive, in the loo at a club, behind the bike sheds at school. Quick. Impersonal. 

But Bertie, Bertie's different. Bertie wants a chance with him, he can tell. Posh bloke whose eyes widen when Bob lowers his voice? He’ll take it. He wonders what they'll do. Where they would do it. A hotel, probably. Not at Stella the accountant’s fancy house. Bertie isn't in charge there, either. 

“I’ll call you,” he says and walks out, leaving Bertie still sat there, eyes wide. 

******

He lets a week pass before he phones Bertie, late on a Wednesday afternoon. “What’re you doing tonight?” 

“I’ve got a—” 

“Cancel it,” he says, voice low, rough. 

Bertie squeaks. “I can't just blow off a business engagement.” 

“Course you can. But if you don't _want_ to …” He lets the implication hang in the air. 

“Um, no, no,” says Bertie, “Let me see what I can do. I'll ring you right back.” 

“Yeah, best you do,” he says and ends the call. He can't help his smile. It’s really too easy. 

The phone rings within ten minutes. 

Bertie’s already at the bar when he walks in two hours later. He hasn't changed, still wearing his favourite track top, jeans. Bertie's eyes travel all the way down his body and he smiles. 

“Right,” says Bob, sitting down across the small table and leaning in, dropping his voice. “Get us a drink, then we’ll leave.” 

“And go where?” says Bertie, shocked into a laugh. 

“Well, surprise me,” he says. 

Bertie finishes his whisky really quick, but Bob makes him wait. 

“Right, let’s go,” he says at last, getting up and turning for the door. Bertie scrambles up and follows. He hails a taxi and gives an address. Not a hotel. Interesting. 

The taxi stops outside a nice block of flats in a smart street. 

“What’s this, then?” 

“Just somewhere for when I can’t go back to the house,” says Bertie, getting out. 

“Oh, somewhere to fuck? Handy.” 

“No, I … sometimes I work so late,” Bertie gabbles. 

“Yeah, sure,” says Bob, crowding him in the lift. Bertie licks his lips, his eyes locked on Bob’s. His throat works. They’re about the same height, but the way Bertie looks at him makes him feel taller. The lift dings and Bob steps back to let Bertie lead the way. Crowds him again as he fumbles with his keys at the flat door. 

“Well, um … drink?” says Bertie, putting his briefcase down in the entry and moving towards a drinks tray in the lounge. There’s a floor-to-ceiling window and the lights of the city glitter into the distance. 

“Nice,” says Bob. “Yeah, sure.” 

Bertie hands him a glass and stands next to him at the window. 

“You can see all the way to—” 

Bob gulps his drink, puts down his glass, and Bertie’s. Grabs his shoulder and spins him round. Pins him up against the glass. Thrusts his hips roughly. 

Bertie gasps. “Oh god!” His hands hit the pane behind him. “What do you want?” he says, voice strangled. 

“Hmmm,” says Bob, “What’re you offering?” 

His heart is banging. He’s never felt such a heady rush, not even blow feels like this. He thumbs Bertie’s bottom lip, feels the way he is shaking. “That’ll do,” he says. “Yeah, that’ll do fine.” 

“Here?” Bertie’s voice is a squeak. 

“Yeah. View’s great,” he says. Then he remembers. “Do as you’re told!” he says. Bertie’s eyes widen and he falls to his knees. 

It’s not the best blowjob he’s ever had, but he comes harder than he ever has, pulling out and pumping come all over Bertie’s tie, his hand slamming on the window. He feels the glass flex and looks down at the lights, London shining below them. 

Bertie looks up at him, his head tipped back, smiling. “Well?” he says. 

Bob’s not sure he can trust his voice. He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says, rough. “Thanks. Come here.” 

Bertie stands up, a question in his eyes. 

He’s in no mood to ruin the heady rush of command, but he's not a complete prick. He undoes Bertie’s belt, gets his trousers open. 

“Still here?” says Bertie. 

“Yes.” Short. “Here.” 

He reaches into his pocket for the packets of lube he is carrying, tears one open, slicks his right hand. Bertie’s cock is tenting his boxers. He pushes them down, closes his hand on him. 

“Oh god.” Bertie’s head falls forward. 

It's an awkward angle and Bob feels a bit shaky. "Here," he says, dropping his voice, deeper. 

Bertie looks up. "What?" 

"Turn round, yeah?" 

Bertie looks puzzled, but he does as Bob asks. Bob pulls him against himself, reaches round. He's looking over Bertie's shoulder, out at the lights. He twitches his hips and Bertie sighs and shakes against Bob's chest. He's not going to last long. As he comes, he arches away from Bob, and then sags against him. Bob has an arm round his waist, runs the other hand up his chest (over the soiled tie) and along his neck. 

"Thanks," he says. 

Bertie turns round. "Thank _you_ ," he says, raising an eyebrow. 

Bob can't stay here now, make some kind of small talk. He's got to take this feeling buzzing along his spine out into the street. "I'll just go …" He gestures vaguely behind himself. 

"Past the kitchen," says Bertie. "Don't you want another drink? It's early," he says. 

"Nah," he says, "can't stay. Gotta go." 

"Oh … right," says Bertie. 

Bob has nowhere pressing to be, just, not here, in this stylish, heartless place. He's just another in a long line of Bertie's boys. 

He goes to the bathroom, washes his hands, looks at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t look any different. He checks the cabinet, but there's nothing interesting there. 

When he comes back out, Bertie is sitting on the sofa, knees crossed, leaning back. He's taken off his tie, but he's not as relaxed as he's trying for. "Sure you won't …?" he says, twisting round. Like he did that other time. 

"I told you, I gotta go." He turns for the door. "I'll call you," he says over his shoulder. 

Bertie's reflection in the window is reflected in the mirror near the door, but Bob's not sure what his expression says. 

Out on the street, he doesn’t really know where he is, but he turns towards the end of the street where he can see more cars passing. 

He walks quickly, head up. The feeling of telling Bertie what to do, and having him obey, is still fizzing in his brain. At the party it felt good, but nothing like as good as now. 

** 

He hasn’t decided if he wants to see Bertie again, and he'll make him wait anyway. But he answers when Bertie rings the next week, almost despite himself. 

"Mmmm?" he says, "What d'ya want Bertie?" 

"I'm having a party. At the flat. A few people. Would you come?" He sounds hopeful, uncertain. Bob can't help smiling. He's never been asked in quite that way before. At the flat. Not Stella's friends, Bertie's. 

"Dunno," he says. "When?" 

"Saturday night." 

"Well," he says, "I'll have to check my schedule." 

Bertie snorts. "Sure," he says. "Ring me back." 

He makes Bertie wait till the next day before ringing back. "Okay," he says. "Saturday." 

"Good," says Bertie. "Eight o'clock." 

Bob's not stupid. He knows what Bertie is doing. But he wants to see how far he can push. 

When he walks into the Speeler on Saturday night, One Two lets out a low whistle. "Where're you off to, Bobby-boy?" 

He's wearing his darkest, tightest jeans and a black T-shirt that pulls across his shoulders. 

"Mind your own business," he says, and catches Mumbles' smirk. 

He has a couple of beers. Not for courage or anything. 

"Right," he says, "I'm off. Don't wait up." One Two turns round to watch him leave, frowning. 

When he rings the bell at Bertie's building the voice that answers is drawling, not Bertie. "Yaar?" 

"It's Bob," he says. 

"Bob?" drawls the guy. Posher than Bertie, even. A bit drunk. 

"Bertie," says the voice, turning away, " _Bob_ wants to come up. Do we know a _Bob_?" 

Bob is about to walk away when Bertie's voice comes through the speaker. "Bob?" 

"Bertie," he says. "You gonna let me up?" 

"Of course. Ignore Jamie," he says. The door buzzes. 

Bertie is at the door of the flat when Bob walks down the hallway. "I'm so sorry about Jamie," he says. "He's a bit of ass when he's had a few." He looks Bob up and down and Bob can see him swallow. 

"Right," he says and follows Bertie inside. 

There are four other men there. Bertie's age. Loud, braying voices fall silent when Bob walks in. 

"Oh, helloooo," says one guy, "You must be _Bob_." 

Bob just stares at him for a beat till the guy looks down. "Yeah," he says, "Bob." 

"Jamie, Bob. Bob, Jamie," says Bertie. Jamie raises an eyebrow and sticks out his hand. Bob grips it tight and Jamie tries not to wince. 

"Philip, Peter, Dan," Bertie says, nodding round the room. 

"Bob," says Bob. He can see them assessing him. Bertie comes up behind him with a drink. "Ta," he says and walks over to the window. 

Bertie follows. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “Sorry about Jamie.”

“Well,” says Bob, “What did you expect him to say, posh bastard!”

“So, how was your week?”

“Really, Bertie? How was my week?” He snorts a laugh. ”Busy,” he says.

“Bertie?” calls a voice from across the room, “when did Billy say he was going to Ibiza?”

Bertie turns away, brushing his hand across Bob’s arse.

He sips his drink and looks out across London. 

"So … How did you meet Bertie?" 

He looks round. One of them, Dan, has come to stand next to him. 

"At a party." 

"Oh, really," says Dan, "may I give you my number?" 

He can't believe it. "Fuck off!" he says. 

"Oh sorry," says Dan, voice low, "I just thought …" 

"You thought wrong," he says and steps away from the prick, drains his glass. Bertie heard him and comes over. 

"What was that?" he asks, alarm in his voice. 

"Your fucking friend seems to think I'm on the job," says Bob. "I wonder why, hmm?" 

Bertie backs away a step and Bob follows. 

"I never said a word that'd make him think--" 

"Nah, I bet you didn't," says Bob. Bertie swallows and Bob takes another step. He's got Bertie backed up to the window. 

"Fuck it," he says, "I'm off." 

He turns for the door, hearing murmurs behind him. In the mirror near the door, he catches a glimpse of Bertie’s appalled, humiliated face. And that makes him feel a bit better.

But when he gets down to the street, it’s so different from last time, just a leaden feeling where before he had been striding along, high on the rush of command.

It’s early, not even fully dark yet, and the evening stretches out. He can’t go home, needs company, doesn’t want to sit alone thinking.

He can’t go back to the Speeler and see the question in One Two’s eyes, the smirks on the blokes’ faces.

“Don’t wait up for me” … what had he thought would happen? That he’d be able to order Bertie around in front of his friends? How fucking stupid. One posh boy alone he could handle, but a whole lot of them? It’s just like it always is, everywhere and forever.

Bob turns towards the busy end of the street, blends into the Saturday evening crowds, wanders aimlessly for a while. Eventually, the crowds are more male and he realises he is in Soho. Couples walk closer together, some holding hands, and crowds of lads are calling across the street to each other. There’s a lightness and a brightness that Bob doesn’t get to feel very often. 

He steps into a bar. Heads turn, but the looks he gets are friendly, open, appreciative. At the counter, he orders a beer and turns to look at the crowd. The men in here are a mix of ages and there is a hum of friendly sounding conversation.

The beer is calming him down. He hadn’t realised quite how keyed up he was, but now he feels better.

An older guy along the bar catches his eye. Bob smiles and the guy comes over.

“Want another?” he says.

“Sure,” says Bob, “yeah. Bob.”

The guy’s pretty fit, for an older guy. Short grey hair, tight blue T-shirt, good jeans.

“Dave,” he says. “So,” he says, “what do you do, Bob?”

“I’m a driver,” says Bob.

“Yeah?” says Dave, “Cab, bus, lorry?”

“Private cars,” says Bob. “You?”

“Builder,” says Dave, turning to look at Bob squarely in the face. “Do you want to go sit down?”

“Yeah,” says Bob, and follows him to a table. He can feel the tension of the evening fall away. Dave’s just another ordinary guy. Just like Bob.


End file.
